The Second Slipper
by EvenSong
Summary: Cinderella in stereo! Two girls vie for the life they both dream of, seeking a way out of the oppression that stifles their present positions. Two balls, two slippers…who will end up with the right shoe, and ultimately, the right happy ending? [Complete]
1. Part the First

**Warnings:** Ratings are for reasons. Hah I can alliterate! Durr...

**Summary:** Cinderella in stereo- two girls vie for the life they both dream of, seeking a way out of the oppression that stifles their present positions. One ball, two slippers…who will end up with the right shoe, and ultimately, the right happy ending?

**The Second Slipper- Part the First**

"No!" Este screams, throwing the feather duster at her sister's head. "She wasn't! Take it back, you wretched girl, take it back!"

"It's true, it's true!" The other girl protests, throwing up hands to block the other projectiles launched at her. "Every single word I said was true, and you know it!" Arimela cowers against the wall, trying to fend off the brutal attack.

"No it wasn't'! She wasn't! You are a liar!" Este advances again, this time with a priceless vase in hand. "My mother was the most beautiful, sweet woman ever to live. She loved my father more than your mother ever did! She was faithful to him," she sneers, using the vase to accentuate her gesticulations.

"Este, you're crazy, you're blind! Why can't you see that she wasn't perfect?" Arimela scuttled backwards, scraping her knuckles on the cold stone of the floor.

"Because she was!" Este rages, letting the glass slip out of her hand and shatter on the floor. "She was the best person ever to live and the only thing that's stopping her from being here now is that she died when I was five!" The blonde hair falls haphazardly in front of insensible blue eyes that burn with a righteous frenzy.

Arimela pities her half-sister, and it shows in her expression. "You don't know how she died, do you?"

"She died because a cruel, cruel man drowned her out of spite," Este informs the younger girl haughtily. "She died nobly, and that's the truth."

"You don't know, poor Este," Arimela sighs through trembling lips. "You don't know the truth at all."

Este grimaces angrily. "Of course I know! I just told you, you stupid wretch! And I don't want your condescension, Arimela. Don't you look down on me! I'm older than you, remember. Always remember that!" She brings her own disdain into the argument, crowding Arimela further into the corner. "I am the daughter of aristocrats, you…are just nobody."

Arimela rises to the baiting, snapping angrily at the taunts dangled before her. "I am every bit as noble as you! I'm landed and titled, as are you! My father is the same as your, remember? Or did you forget?"

"Ah, but I," Este smirks, "Have a far, far better mother than yours will ever be."

"Back to that again!" Arimela snorts chidingly. "You're mother was a prostitute, Este, a lady of negotiable affection. A _whore_, do you hear me?" Now it is Arimela who is screaming as Este is cowed by the sudden onslaught. "She was a little slut that your father took in and married because he thought he was in love! The fool! She was a faithless wench, feckless in everything she did. That's what got her killed, the jealousies of her patrons, so noble, so possessive! You didn't know that, did you Este? See, Este, I'm right, and you know I am. Noblewomen aren't beautiful, but _whores_ are. A _whore_, Este, a _slut_." Arimela smiles with cruel satisfaction, her lips twisting into a Cheshire grin.

"No," Este whispers, over and over and over again. "No. You're lying to me. My blood is as blue as- nay, bluer than yours! No, no, no! Lying! You're a spiteful, lying slut, you are!" Her delicately boned hand reaches for something to break, to use as a weapon. Fine, long fingers close on the broom handle that rests against the wall. "You know what happens to liars, Arimela? Do you? They get punished, they do!" Este's full wrath descends upon Arimela along with the handle of the broom.

The screams fill the small room, a duet of agony.

"What is going on here?" A woman appears in the doorway, filling it up with her matronly bulk. "Ela? Este? What on earth are you doing?"

"She's lying!" Este cries, pointing accusingly at Arimela. "She's a horrid liar!"

Arimela simply sobs and watches her mother from behind pitiful, oceanic eyes.

The broom clatters to the floor, and Este's cheeks are coated with tears. "She said my mother was a- a- slut! Can you believe that, Charinla?" Este clings to the skirts of her step-mother. "Arimela said awful things about my poor, dear mother!"

"Get off me!" Charinla gasps, shaking the tightly gripping fingers from the fine cloth. "Ela, Ela dear, are you hurt?"

Arimela gazes at her mother from blackened eyes, and her eyelashes are twisted with clotting blood. "Mother…" she mumbles through swollen lips. "She hit me…" Arimela raises a tremulous hand to the cuts and bruises that now adorn her face.

The fury smolders in the mother's eyes as she watches the defiance harden the face of the girl. "How _dare_ you, you selfish girl! You know better, Este, than to hit your sister. You _know_, you're old enough by now."

"But she lied," hisses Este, resentment festering in her words at the double accusation. "She _lied,_ and you'd let her get away with it! You play favorites, you evil, conniving woman! I hate you! You stole my mother's spot, I hate you!" Este does not scream, only make sure that each word is enunciated with terrible clarity. "I hate you. All of you."

She turns, deliberately kicking the battered broom aside as she saunters out of the tiny room. She can hear the reassuring murmurings of mother to daughter, and she laughs bitterly. She doesn't need anything of the sort. She knows that they will find some way to punish her, but she will become better than them, she will _escape_ them. Este knows this, deep within her heart. She will become like her mother once was, beautiful and loved by all the world.

Now, however, she must suffer the petty words and cruelties of her family. She knows, though, that se will escape and become better than them.

She knows, and she smiles, walking with new confidence in her stride.

"You can't do this!" Este shrieks as the key clicks in the lock. "You can't, you can't! You can't!" Her palms bleed, the soft skin tearing as it meets the rough wood. "You can't!" She screams again, futilely. "I've been waiting for weeks!" The tears that stream down her face are crystalline rivers of adolescent anguish. "I have a _dress_!" Her words come out cracked as the heartless footsteps echo away.

She spends several minutes collapsed in front of the door, sobbing with great, gulping breaths. Her entire body shakes as she cries, the bones of her ribs showing as she slumps forward.

She _has_ been waiting for weeks, working the hardest to be the best, so that that lovely dress will fit just perfectly and she will be the most beautiful.

"No!" Este screams wretchedly, slumping on the floor in an incongruous picture of beautiful desperation.

Her thin fingers pry at the lock, sending fragments of nails and strips of skin fluttering to the floor. She scrabbles at the metal handle, wrenching it from side to side hopelessly.

When she tires of her fruitless quest to make the bolt slide away, she turns to the dress that she had been admiring for weeks. It mocks her now, and she attacks it viciously with her bloodied hands. In her frenzied assault on the periwinkle confection, she tears it to shreds, rending tulle from satin and pulling out every last stitch of the meticulous embroidery. She screams as she destroys, feeling her wrath dissipates as her target shrinks rapidly.

Divested of the fragile dress to bear the brunt of her anger, she returns to the door, assailing the door with her broken hands once more.

Suddenly, something gives and Este tumbles into the hallway, gracelessly sprawling on the floor. She stands slowly, assessing the situation. An unlocked door means that she has been released from her prison and let loose on the rest of the house.

A smile curls the corners of Este's lips up, and a throaty chuckle fountains into the silence. She spins around happily, twirling until she is dizzy. "Perfect," she whispers, the heady joy of it all sending bursts of adrenaline through her.

She runs to her room, so recently her jailer, and lunges for the mannequin upon which her dress is hung. Este's steps falter as she remembers her recent fit of violence. The remnants of the dress lie in tatters around her. A wail escapes her lips, echoing across the room and reverberating from the stones.

Este snarls angrily, glaring at her besmirched reflection in the mirror. "It's all your _fault_," she growls vehemently, striking out again to find an outlet for her passionate hatred.

Este stalks from her room, leaving behind the ruins of a room, and enters the halls of the manor house. She hunts through the rooms and wardrobes of her sisters and step-mother, pawing through their belongings in hope of finding something suitable to wear.

She hurriedly pushes aside all of Charinla's and Fermimly's, but stops at Arimela's. Her half-sister is growing to be quite like Este. Este smiles; she has captured her prey.

The new dress is stunningly radiant; a golden corset melts into layers of lacy silk that is the color of sunshine. She knows that she will be resplendent in it and dons it reverently, almost catching the trailing sleeves in the lacings. Este tightens the silky ribbons as far as they will go, tying them deftly at her waist. The remaining ribbon trails down the back of the dress, and she can imagine it twirling around as she dances with all the aristocracy available.

Quickly, her experienced hand fixes her cosmetics and hair, letting everything be as simple as possible so as not to make her entire ensemble seem too gaudy.

"There," she pronounces finally, a satisfied smirk capturing her mouth. "Perfect." She adjusts the strap on the elegant golden stiletto, making sure that the crisscrossing pattern lies neatly, perfectly. Este pauses to toast herself in the mirror with the goblet of water that she had set there. "To revenge," she states sadistically.

She arrives at the gardens and pushes a strand of golden hair away from the bejeweled mask that adorns her face. The noises of hoof beats and conversation cover her arrival neatly; no one is aware that one last guest has arrived, so when Este makes her appearance on the steps, she creates a stirring of surprise. The murmurs ripple through the assembled people, jumping from tongue to tongue like droplets of water hitting the cobblestones.

A young man steps to her, offering her his hand. "Milady, a name?"

She denies him, but asks for his.

"Ser Veronj al Camerdyia, my nameless lady." He bows with collected control, kissing the healing skin of her hand. "Milady, please, grace me with a dance."

She nods, a calculated gesture that allows her to retain the sultry gaze that has him fascinated. "Dance, then."

Al Camerdyia allows a small, mirthless smile to broach the expressionless wall of his face as he takes her hand and carries her off into her fantasies of nighttime entertainment.

They dance for hours, the jealous glances fueling Este's adrenaline and making her unmindful of every agonizing step that she takes. The blood that drips off of her feet stains the shoes a ruddy crimson seeps instantly into the flattened lawn where she dances with al Camerdyia.

His hand grasps hers tightly, holding her fast when she would turn away. His eyes are chilling grey pits that build iron walls around her resolve, stealing it from her. He keeps her there, tightly held against him so that she cannot breathe. Veronj knows who she is, but plays along just the same until finally she looks at him with tears in her eyes, begging to be set free to find another partner. "Sera Este dy Sharteth," he murmurs into her ear, making the ametrine drops that nestle in her hair slip slightly to the side.

Este feels his breath rushing over her sensitive skin and hears the dreaded sound her name slither into her ear. It comes from his lips. She tries to push him away, but she cannot; he holds too tightly. "How...?" She gasps as his fingers press her closer.

"Este, Este," he croons delightedly, still spinning around, feigning the motions of the dance.

"Veronj," She mumbles helplessly back, still trying desperately to pull away.

"You're just like your mother, sweet little Este, just like her." Al Camerdyia smiles as she stiffens, not knowing of the accusations that are still fresh in her mind, but enjoying her bafflement just the same.

"No." Her tear-thickened voice is hoarse and he laughs merrily at the expression in her eyes.

"Oh yes, little Sera dy Sharteth, you're so much like your mother, in both superficial aspects and temperament. She always came to me like this."

"Mother…not…no!" Este wrenches her hand from his and distances herself from him, although her curiosity will not allow her to leave him entirely. "My mother? And _you_?" Este stares in horror, looking at the man who has hid his years well behind a mask of agility and endurance. "No…" She realizes then, that the truth had been told to her, but still she denies it with every fiber of her being. "You're lying!" She accuses him, one finger jabbing unsteadily through the air to point at him. "Liar."

"No," he says, that cruel smirk twisting his handsome face. "Do you want to be just like your dear, sweet mother?"

Este, caught off guard, replies with the answer that has always rested deep within her. "Yes…"

Al Camerdyia laughs, laughing at her and her childish dreams. "You want to be like her?"

"Yes," Este answers again, unable to stop herself from suppressing the hope that has fueled her life for the past twelve years. "I want to be just like her…"

Al Camerdyia smiles again, finally letting true emotion invade his controlled façade. "Then like her you shall be," he declares, releasing her physically. "Come."

Arimela dances, wincing as the pulse of the music pounds into her. Her partner's hands grip her arms and make the blood flow on her arms once more. The paint could hide some of her injuries, but it cannot disguise the worst of the abrasions.

The mask is silver and set with emeralds, reminiscent of the sea. She touches it lightly and flinches at the pain. The bruises have yet to fade, but in this light and with their powdery covering, it is hard to see them as anything but shadows.

She is spun and dipped in time to the orchestral music, and the silvery satin of her dress swirls around her ankles like cool water. It slithers across the grass, the hiss of its silken passage lost in the sounds of the people. Arimela does not speak, only sip the cool night air like wine, partaking liberally from its intoxication.

She notices the masks around her are falling away, disappearing to reveal the beautiful, painted faces of the guests. Arimela touches the ribbon tie of her own mask, but does not release the knot. The silver strand continues to rest in her fair locks, a pale streak among the flax. Her partner looks at her strangely and reaches up to undo it for her, but she stops his hand.

"No," she insists. "Leave it." Her lips curve in a way that she hopes is enigmatic. "It's not time yet." The words fall softly from her lips to his ear.

"Oh?" He looks at her curiously, his own mask dangling forgotten in his hand. When he gets no response but for a smile, he nods in resigned agreement. "Better to get the Prince's attention, eh?"

Let him think that, she muses, nodding politely. His hand falls from hers and he steps away, dejected and disgusted all at once.

Arimela sighs and turns to find a new partner, but the people that surround her are drawing back from her, leaving her alone in the middle of a widening circle. She spins again and again, more frantic with each turn. There is no one who will dance with her, no one at all. They have all forsaken her; she is the only one not unmasked.

There is no one who will take her partner and end her social torment, no one until the strong, gloved fingers wrap tightly around her wrist.

Her frenzied breathing slows as she comes face to face with another mask. The designs on this mask are exquisite, etched black on striking blue. The intricate patterns swirl underneath the chin, curling up in a mockery of a beard. The blue lips are shadowed with jagged midnight streaks and as they start to form a word, Arimela's eyes rise further. The lacy design creeps upwards, culminating in stylized, painted crown on the high arch of a forehead.

She sweeps a curtsey, as low as her bruised body will allow her to go, until she is almost horizontally obeisant. "My Prince," she whispered, absolutely mortified at the affront she has given him.

Her wrist is still captured in his hand, as she realizes when he jerks her upright. "Do you think to make reparations for your arrogance by being extravagantly subservient, girl?"

Arimela stifles a moan as she murmurs, "No, my Prince, I do not. How have I wronged you?" She can feel the tears running down her scratched cheeks as the pain increases as his grip does.

"You dare to hide your face from me, the one you so mockingly call 'my Prince'." His sneering voice imitates hers in a cruel charade.

"Oh my Prince," she says, trying to block the sobs from affecting her speech, "You must understand, I hold you in the highest respect." Arimela is bent double now with the pain, only her slender, gloved hand above her head.

"You can't," he denies her claim, bending her hand back so as to cause her more pain. "You lie."

"I do not lie," Arimela sighs, inhaling oxygen with unsteady gasps. The pain is overcoming her, invading her vision and balance. She wavers as she continues on. "Twice, I have been accused of lying, once by you and once by another, and twice, I have told the truth. The truth, my dearest Prince, is why I do not show my face and why I humble myself before you now with the purest of intentions." Arimela feels herself sinking further, dragging the man who rules the moment with her.

"Get up!" He commands, disdain tingeing his voice.

Arimela struggles to unbend, fighting the agony that flares at her every move.

His hand clamps on her other wrist, holding this one tighter than the other. Arimela cannot suppress the cry at the sudden shock of pain, and she tumbles forward. "Get up, you stupid slattern," he orders, hauling on her arms. "Your dearest Prince commands it." The derision fills her world.

"I cannot!" Arimela gasps, the excruciating torture that runs through her entire body making her curl into herself as a hope for escaping it. "You're hurting me!" She sobs openly now, forsaking any hope of control.

_Where is her mother_? She wonders desperately, unknowing of who might be watching her. _Father? Where was he?_ She falls limply as the Prince releases her roughly, shoving her away from him.

He is appalled at himself; she can see it even through the mask. The blue eyes stare at her in horror, watching her unmoving form with fear. "I-I am sorry, lady, I apologize." He kneels next to her, carefully brushing her hair away from the mask so that he might see her eyes. "I am sorry," he repeats in an endless refrain.

She stops him with a shake of her head as she slowly rises from the flattened earth. "Accepted," She tells him softly, and then turns and stumbles into the people, running away from him, from everyone. She trips over nothing, her steps unsure. She can feel his eyes on her as he watches her go, but he makes no move to stop her, knowing that he is at fault.

Arimela falls but she refuses the hands that offer to help her up, preferring to hobble on barefoot and dirty. She collapses as she reaches the carriage and orders the coachman to take her home, but to return for her parents later.

Curling on the bed, she sleeps in her ruined finery.

Este laces the corset quickly, her deft fingers needing no guidance but the aid of memory. The ribbons bite into her fingers as she pulls them as tight as they can go, but her only reaction is the smallest wince. She knows that she has shown too much already this night, and she is determined not to show more.

"Let me help." Al Camerdyia's hands cover her own, but she spins away.

"No." Este finds that she likes the negative word. It has become her friend in recent days. She repeats it, "No."

Ser Veronj returns to the chaise lounge that he had been sprawled across. "As you wish."

Este feels the whalebone stays digging into her ribs but she does not care anymore. She wishes that she could wrap up all her troubles in the neat little bow she ties and walk around without giving any hint of sadness.

"So, Sera dy Sharteth, do you still love your mother?"

"You did not know my mother." Her voice is hollow in comparison to the rich mirth of his tones.

Veronj stands behind her and wraps her in his long arms like a shawl. "I knew her better than most." He sighs and rests his head on her bony shoulder. "You wanted to be just like her," he reminds her cruelly. "And now you are, dear, sweet Este. Now you are."

She doesn't want to believe him, but she knows that it is true. "Am I?"

"You are," he assures in between light kisses that flutter along her throat. She shivers and pulls away, but his hands are catching her, trying to keep her.

"Ser-!" She rips from his grasping hands, reluctant to give herself so easily again so soon. "Veronj!" Este pleads with him, but that only serves to drive his passion. Twisting and writhing, she slithers out of his embrace and falls gracelessly to the floor.

"Este, just like Else, come to me, come!" Veronj stumbles after her, the fancy attire that has fallen around his ankles fouling his steps.

She scrambles away from him, mumbling, "Can't, won't, shouldn't, no, no, no!"

His fine hands scrabble after her, clutching at the fabric of her skirt, her slippers, anything within reach.

Este feels the petticoat give way, the intricate lace giving way with out a fight. He grabs her feet, her ankles, pulling them together as she kicks and screams, failing at him with blind terror. The shoeless heel that has been floundering by his face connect with something solid, and she hears him grunt with pain. Este works her way upright, defending herself and the scraps of her reputation, leaving behind what she must.

Bedraggled and barefoot, she runs into the night, seeking the comfort of a coach to carry her away.

**Author's Note: **For all of you who read _Catch Me_, or are simply waiting for something new from me, this shall have to tide you over. It's two parts, I think, unless it decides to take off on me and have a growth spurt. So, here's the first part, and I hope you like it! The second part will be up…eventually. Once I write it and all. Yeah.

But as for writing in general…School just started for me, so I don't have a whole lot of time to do much other than practice my tuba and do all the AP work I've been assigned. They work me hard! One of my AP's is English, so my writing will hopefully improve!

Anyway, hope you liked this, all reviews are welcome, flames will be used to toast marshmallows (I'm hungry), but constructive criticism will be received with the utmost joy and gratitude. So **please tell me what you thought**! And any **suggestions** for what happens next are totally welcome…**love you all**!


	2. Part the Second

**Warnings: **We still have ratings for reasons, folks.

**Quick Note:** For some further explanation, check the Author's Note at the end. I have some explaining to do. I'm also terrible sorry that this is a little on the short side!

**The Second Slipper: Part the Second **

Arimela looks in the mirror, running her fingers over the colorful blotches that adorn her face. "Truth," she says bitterly, her eyes falling to the mask that rests on the vanity. "It means nothing." The knock on the door and the flurry of voices that follow draw her attention away from the feathered confection, and she follows the sounds, eschewing shoes and letting her feet sink into the lush rugs on the floor.

Arimela watches from afar, as the door opens and the man who is standing there starts to speak. He tells of the ball of the night before, and as she watches his lips form the shapes of words, she finds with amazement that her own story is being told.

Este's lips curve into a bitter smile as she listens to the herald speaking of Ser Veronj al Camerdyia's new pupil. Oh what respect! She laughs to herself and thinks of how naïve they all are. They know nothing of the truth- they do not know that the new pupil that they exclaim over so is standing in their midst, walking past them everyday like a ghost wafting through the halls.

Este wears the mask of the expressions, but she does not feel them. She fancies that she does not feel anything anymore.

It would be so romantic, if it weren't so melodramatic.

She watches the messenger, listening to the words, "And she is the fairest in all the land," slide across her ears, infiltrating her mind like a disease; it is silent and invisible, and it may yet prove harmful.

"I am beautiful," she whispers.

"Este?" Fermimly looks askance at Este, pale eyes scrutinizing.

Este smiles loftily, condescendingly at her younger sister, saying, "Oh nothing, my dear, nothing at all."

Days go by, interminable days that stretch the hours to no end, never ending days that are so unbearably tedious. There will be another ball, but it will not beginning until dusk has fallen, and it is only midmorning now. Fermimly stands behind Arimela, brushing her fine hair with endless strokes.

"Ela," Fermimly ventures softly, "What happened at the bal masque last time?"

Arimela is silent, brooding on the words. She settles on an answer, "You heard the messenger, Fermimly, you don't need me to tell you."

"But Ela," the younger girl protests, "You never told me what you did. Este didn't go so I can't ask her, but you did. Oh Arimela, please tell me, please!" Fermimly catches the brush in a tangle and Arimela winces.

"You shall have to pick out what is true, though." Arimela sighs and begins to speak, relating her disastrous tale. She tells the absolute truth, every word coming directly from experience. When she is done, Fermimly giggles.

"Oh Ela, how can I pick the truth from that web of lies? You're such a good storyteller!"

Arimela sighs sadly and pulls the brush from her sister's hand. "You shall have to decide for yourself, Fermimly. I won't tell you; that's the secret of the storyteller."

"Arimela!" Fermimly kneels before the elder girl. "Please, please tell me the truth?"

Arimela's voice becomes harsh. "Hush, child. Go to mother. Perhaps she has something useful for you to do, instead of me feeding your fancies."

Fermimly rises, the hurt expression that blossoms on her face cutting Arimela to the quick. She must not care. She must be invulnerable to everything; she must wear her mask once more.

"Fermimly?" Arimela whispers softly, "I'm sorry, sister." A tear rolls across the healing skin of her cheek, but she knows that Fermimly is gone. "Dania."

The maidservant comes when called, padding softly across the carpeted floor. "Yes, miss?"

"I must get ready for this night's spectacle," Arimela informs the woman, her voice devoid of expression. In her mind, she replaces spectacle with debacle, for that is what it most certainly will be.

Arimela sighs and then gasps as the stays are yanked tightly against her spine, locking her into the bodice of her dress, just as she has locked herself with the commitment of this bal masque.

Este grins, her teeth showing pale white, hissing breath escaping from between her lips as the laces draw the whalebone into her back. "Wonderful, wonderful," she whispers, feeling the rigid fabric restricting her lungs. "Perfect."

She looks at her fingers, red from the pressure of the laces. "Masks for fingers and face, then," she murmurs softly, demurely, for that is all she can do. Were she to scream, it would be a sad noise indeed, for she can barely draw breath to speak, let alone shriek.

The dress, a pearlescent cream reminiscent of innocence, fans out from her waist, spreading in elegant white folds down to the floor. The cloth is as fine as the cut, and Este wears it well, looking ironically angelic. With a careless grace, she sweeps her pale locks up so that the crest like waves from the crown of her head, continuing the simple elegance of her attire.

Este has been excluded by her family this time as well, although now it is her choice rather than her fault. She had told them, so many hours earlier, that she did not want to go as she did not attend the first ball, and as they left, she smiled with pride for her skillful acting.

Now, as she watches the powder glimmer on her eyelids, she smiles again, again proud, but this time of her cosmetic skill. She slips out the door to her room, letting a dark shawl drape around her shoulders to ward of the chill that she imagines is floating through the air.

Este refuses to believe that the bumps that rise on her arms are caused by nervousness; she attributes them to the breeze that drifts across the lawns, bringing the scents of perfumed flowers to her attention.

A casual wave of her slender hand calls the carriage forth, and the driver she has hired hands her into the coach, grateful to be near such a splendid being. He knows where to go and therefore, does not ask.

She reposes on the cushioned seat, feeling the velvet cushions beneath her fingers give as she presses on them.

As the carriage comes to a jerking halt, Este steps out of the carriage and into the night, finding Ser Veronj al Camerdyia waiting to take her hand as soon as her feet touch the ground. His hand is warm on hers as he leads her away, away from the hired horses, away from the crowds. He takes her away from the security of reality and away from her life, leading her into her deepest desire.

Arimela can feel the music as it thrums through her chest, but she does not want to dance. She walks alone, alone through the towering hedges in the garden, separated from the merry guests. The mask still rests lightly on her face despite the lack of need; it gives her security in anonymity.

Footsteps create and irregular upbeat to hers, and she turns, ready to run with feral instinct. As the other approaches, her stance eases and the tension flows away from her in rivers.

"Good evening, Lady." A familiar voice speaks, and Arimela readies again to run.

"Good evening," she cautiously replies, the words floating lethargically through the humid air.

No more words are spoken, but his hand grasps hers as he pulls her into the shadows and begins to dance. Both wear masks, whether they are physical or otherwise, so neither knows who the other is. They simply know that they dance together, following the musical instruction with an artless grace that comes from desperation. Her hand holds tightly to his, the pressure equaled by his grip. Their gloved fingers twine elegantly around each other, pale silk catching on fine leather.

Arimela loves the brief touches of the night air on her exposed cheeks, and she imagines wistfully that they are the bare fingers of this unknown man. She wonders who he is, but finds that she cares nothing for knowing, but everything for anonymity.

She feels safer with this mask on, safe from the cruelties of the last bal masque, safe from the prejudices of the world against those who hide.

As the music slows, preparing to flow gracefully into the next selection, Arimela pulls away from her partner, choosing to slip into the shadows once more. She is surprised when he follows her, his hand rising to cup her cheek, the leather warmed by his skin touching her face with the utmost delicacy. She is even more startled when he reached up to his own mask and pulls it off without any hint of bravado.

In the shadows, his face is not clear, but she can tell enough from the light to know that he is not ill favored. Her hand mirrors his actions as with one hand, she traces his jaw line, and with other, removes her own mask.

Arimela knows that the darkness hides her fading imperfections sufficiently and so she feels secure in that no one will recognize her. The sweet caress of both hand and air make her shiver with delight, and as their hands fold together once more, she feels the joy dance down every vein that runs through her body

She is happy, until he looks up.

Este stares balefully out of the glazed window. It is such an expensive window. How easily she could break it though. Why are the fragile things worth more? She muses over this as she waits for him, watching the dancers below her.

They twirl in circles voluminous skirts flailing about like tortured daisies, sparkling in the light of the numerous candles. Este almost wishes that they would catch on fire, for what a splendid sight that would be!

She watches the hurried exchanges as partners whirl by, the desperate snatches of conversation that she cannot hear. Este almost wishes that she was down there, but she forgets all that when a hand rests gently on her shoulder.

"Este," his voice murmurs, low and loving in her ear.

"Veronj," she replies, equally sensual.

His fingertips trace lightly down her throat, tease the sensitive skin. "Este, my little protégé, my darling," he calls her, his lips echoing the words on her cheek. "You have come so far in such a short time. How proud I am of you!"

Este continues to observe the ever shifting scene below with the same dispassion that has masked her expression for so long. She does not respond to the advances that Veronj makes, only sits there, watching.

Este can see her reflection in the fragile mirror, and she watches her fate unfold behind her. She can feel his fingers pulling at the strings; feel the pads of his fingers pressing against the bare skin of her back, tracing the contours of her spine. She sits straighter as he splays his palm across her waist, curving first and last fingers around the edges.

But as al Camerdyia strips her of both clothes and dignity, Este spies of face that is lifted upwards, trained on hers, watching every move she makes. Then Veronj pulls her into his hard embrace, and that one connecting moment is lost.

Este does not forget it.

Eyes widen, and a gasp escapes painted lips. "Milord!" The word falls from a startled tongue, and skirts hiss over the cropped grass as they are spread for a sweeping curtsey. "My Prince," she says softly, hating the way that she is reminded of the humiliation from the last time.

Arimela is no longer safe, no longer hidden behind the protective barrier of her mask, She is exposed, her flaws uncovered for the judgment of her sovereign.

Her hopes rise as he pays no attention to her obeisance; instead, he is watching somewhere far above her head, his face illuminated by a shaft of light. The shadows are banished by the radiant intensity which burns in his eyes, and Arimela wonders vaguely if she should be frightened.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she backs away, still half bent at the waist, her skirts tangling gracelessly around her ankles. It is a shuffling walk she has, trying to be as respectful as possible while still in his view.

Arimela does not want a repetition of last time.

As soon as she deems herself to be far enough away, she straightens, gathers her skirts up and runs, looking back only once.

He is reaching after her, one hand extended towards the direction she has run, his expression both hurt and confused. Frantically, he searches for her in the light, but Arimela has escaped to the shadows.

Before she disappears completely, she hears him cry, "But I don't even know your name!"

And then she is gone.

**Author's Note:** Okay, I said I had some explanation to do, so here goes…this story keeps running away from me and getting longer and longer. Originally, it was going to be one ball, but now it's two. Possibly three, even. It's…odd. It'll end eventually, though. No more than four parts, I'm guessing. I'm hoping…

As for my lack of updating…school is dominating my life entirely. This is what I get for skipping lunch to take extra classes: extra work! Luckily, my AP classes haven't given me too much work (yet), so I still have some time. I've also been sick for just about the entire month of September, so time not spent on schoolwork is spent napping.

But here it is! Part the second! You can all celebrate now! Or maybe not…:)

Thanks to all the people who reviewed, I really appreciate it. Again, any suggestions, critique or any type of comments are welcome and encouraged!

**To those who reviewed…**

_Lupusregina_ I'm addicted to Cinderella stories as well…I hope this gets less confusing as it goes on. Is there anything I can do to make it less confusing?

_Aerinha_ Thank you!

_SmileyFacePerson_ But…but I couldn't leave it at a one-shot! It made me write more! Although, when I think of it, I can totally see your point. Thanks for the comments!

_HolmesIsMyHomie_ Aw, I'm sorry I scared you! But at the same time…I'm glad you love it:)

_Scoutcraft__ Piratess:_ Something else will be coming…eventually. Once I decide what 'Something Else' will be. Sooner or later…:)

_Areida__ Rivers:_ Anne has told me about you- you're Gavin's writer (creator?)! is excited to meet you! Wow. Thanks for all the compliments! They make me feel really good:D As for how I leave all the hanging possibilities…well, I don't actually know who ends up where, so that's how that happens. I have to leave myself plenty of elbow room to do what I want to do…whatever that ends up being.

**Well, cheers to all** and I hope you enjoyed this installment of _The Second Slipper_! Tune in next time to find out what happens next…!


	3. Part the Third

_Warnings_: Betrayal and drama galore!

_The Second Slipper: _Part the Third

Arimela feels the rush of air surge through her lungs, claw its way up her throat and then tumble haphazardly from between her lips. The shawl is tightened around her shoulders, a worthless barrier against the rain. Her footsteps echo dully across the walls that rise up and into the gloom of the morning, sounding with hurriedly silenced petulance.

Arimela's skin feels taut, as if her skull is the body and her skin the head of a drum. Her fragile nerves feel the same, ready to be snapped at a moment's notice.

Arimela is glad that it is raining. No one knows if the drops that trickle down her cheeks are raindrops or teardrops. As she steps beneath the shelter of a vendor's stall, she wipes the innocuous moisture away, smearing it gracefully across her cheeks.

"Good morning, Mistress. How may I help you?" The robust voice that rolls out from behind a tower of cloth is soon accompanied by the incongruous frame of a thin man.

"Good morning, Goodman. I seek only a respite from the rain, nothing more." Arimela feels her lips twist upwards into an unwilling and unexpected smile. "I am sorry to rob you of the joy of a sale."

"Ach, such things do happen," the scarecrow figure replies, shrugging sharp shoulders in a good natured gesture. "It is rather damp out today, eh?"

Arimela nods, "Oh, indeed… not just damp, either." They both watch for a few silent moments the rain that sluices off the canvas overhang. The silence is broken by another painful cough.

"Oh, Mistress, such a noise I've naught heard before!" The merchant is all effusive concern, taking her arm and leading her to his former shelter. "Sit for a spell, stay as long as you like, admire my wares…" He trails off with a worried chuckle, a laugh with Arimela tries to duplicate but ends as a hoarse wheeze.

She looks at him, noting the aging face, the vague wrinkles around the dark, caring eyes. "Thank you," she says, but even so simple a phrase seems too clichéd. "Goodman, you do me such a service."

"Ach, Mistress, it is nothing to let a lady rest but chivalry, like the knights of old!" He smiles again. "It has been a dreary day so far, but perchance I may brighten yours."

Arimela smiles at the shopkeeper, grateful for the kindness. She opens her mouth to speak, but the words that ring through the air do not come from her lips.

"All the maidens, did you hear?" The feminine chatter fills the street, flying above and across the crowd of young women.

"All of them! Can you believe it?"

"Oh," sighs one with a particularly vapid expression, "I do so hope smiles at me!"

Este glides between them, feeling as if she is the water that floats upon their oil. She is separate, and she prefers to keep it that way. Her silk skirts hiss over their rough cotton ones, and she pretends not to notice the jealous glances that are turned her way.

"All the eligible maidens are to assemble, the messenger said!" The excited words still hum in an intense undertone, creating a throbbing pulse for the gathering.

"This is so exciting! Oh, how wonderful!"

Este refuses to take part in their prattle, considering it worthless.

"Ladies! Form a line!" A tall man stands in the center of the small, frilly mob. His large hand ensnares a thin arm. "Get behind her!" He bawls, his voice carrying over the heartbeat and quieting its nervous flutter.

The frightened wisp of a girl straightens, proud to be first. Her mousy hair falls in lank tangles across her shoulders. Este watches in amusement as the girl wobbles when the tall man grabs her ankle and jerks it from beneath her. The tears flow when the shoe that is jammed on falls off loosely as soon as the helping hand it removed.

The poor, wispy girl looks so sad.

Este does not care. Este has forgotten about the girl, about the tall man and about the press of curvaceous bodies around her. She is thoroughly focused on one man, one man who is so solemn.

This one man wears a crown upon his head of brown curls, shining with miniscule droplets of rain. He is dressed in the finest tailored uniform, a royal seal embroidered neatly upon his breast. Este traces his face with her eyes, at last meeting his gaze with startling recognition.

She is thrown back in time, to a night not long ago, where she is sitting in front of a window and a thoughtless man with cold hands is claiming her as his own, while she seeks freedom in the fleeting glance of another's troubled stare.

As they focus on one another in the present, Este recognizes this look and this face, but separately. Slowly, she merges the two.

This man is Larius val Tännon, Prince of the mother country.

Arimela watches from the back of the line, sees Este once but dismisses it as a figment of her imagination. Her eyes are locked upon the visage of her Prince, the man she both fears and adores. She does not know which to hold as truth. Is the man who berated her so soundly the true Prince, or is the anonymous man who dance half the night with her real?

Arimela does not know, so she waits.

At long last, the mass of girls is whittled away to nothing, with only Arimela and a few others left. She daintily lifts the hem of her skirts, proffering her foot with the utmost grace. She gasps as she sees the shoe that will adorn her foot.

"Oh!" She exclaims softly, surprised etched across her face. "That's my slipper. The one I lost!"

The tall man who is now kneeling snorts. "Of course it is, milady, of course. It's been every other young lady's as well, did you know that?"

Arimela's brow furrows at this indifferent rebuff. "But it is. I ran home, one shoe off, one shoe on. I ran away from…" She stops, aware of the imperial presence that hovers so near.

"That's right, darling, you didn't." It is the man's turn to frown as the shoe fits perfectly, as if it were measured to fit this foot exactly. "But then again…" He smiles upwards. "Perhaps you did." His smile is now friendly. "Go stand with the others, girl."

Arimela rises slowly, confused. She refuses to look at her Prince, and so, when she passes him, does not look at him. A hand on her wrist freezes her in her tracks.

"Sera?" The white glove is planted firmly on her sleeve.

Arimela risks a glance upwards, heavenwards. "Yes, Sera Arimela dy Sharteth."

"Look, at me, Arimela dy Sharteth." He is so polite, this Prince. The second truth must be the real truth.

She looks. "Yes, my Prince?"

His lips quirk into an ironic twist as he remembers the masked woman from the first bal masque and how she said the same. Perhaps he has found his bride. "You remind me of someone. I can't place who. Please, continue on your way. I am sorry to have interrupted you."

"It is no trouble, my Prince." She dips her head again, fear and adrenaline coursing wildly through her veins. She does not know whether to fear or to stay, and so she stays.

She waits.

Este sees her half sister step into the small group of maidens who qualified for the second examination. They all look similar, their slender bodies tapering into corseted waists and then flaring gently into modest skirts. They all appear affluent, for their cheeks are rouged and their dresses fine, but none so much as Este.

Este smiles haughtily.

Two of the chosen five are talking together, whispering in sibilant spurts of breath. Este cannot hear what they are saying, but assumes their subject to be Larius val Tännon. The furtive glances in his directions confirm her guess.

Este keeps her own musings to herself. She wonders that she should have met him before and intrigued him so. She doesn't quite understand anything, but she knows that she can make this work to her advantage somehow. She hopes.

"Ladies, please, come this way." The tall man who has knelt before them stands finally and beckons them over. Este snaps to attention and migrates with her new companions. She sees that they have an audience now, an audience of red-eyed girls and grinning boys, old men and new mothers and any number of other misfits about the town. They stand in the rain, just to watch the royal heir find the maid he is searching so desperately for.  
"You will each speak to his Majesty now, after you are presented to him, of how you met him." The valet's resounding voice shivers through her chest, vibrating with the deep tones. "This will allow Prince Larius to ascertain that you are the correct woman."

Este watches the two girls out of corner of her eye, watches them frantically exclaiming to each other about how they never met the prince, but they must impress him anyway. They promise each other that they will not be jealous if the other is picked.

Este chuckles, because she knows they both are lying.

"Caryn fa Gelder, step forward please." The tall valet takes her arm and draws the now terrified girl forth, out of the protective and possessive clutches of her friends.

"Speak." Larius's voice is flat, inflected with metallic politeness.

Caryn fa Gelder throws a fearful yet triumphant glance over her shoulder. "We danced, Prince Larius. We danced all night long together, and at the end you told me loved me, by the edge of the pond. You said we'd get married. I had to leave, though, because the night was waning and morning was coming. You said you'd find me again, and you have, Larius my love. You have." Her voice starts out tremulously, just as her tale does, and strengthens along the way, losing the frightened edge. "I ran because I was not supposed to be there. I had to flee because my mother and sisters would chastise me violently if they caught me. I am so sorry, my dear, that our night had to be cut short."

Val Tännon shakes his head only slightly, cutting the merchant's daughter short. She is lead away, her triumph now turned to bitter anger.

"Daciana al Havergal. Come here."

A soft wave of surprise crests of the crowd, reviving the arrested heartbeat of rumor. They are surprised that such a high ranking noble is among the chosen few. The crowd, which has been clinging to the cliché of their poor girls making it big, is shocked, their dream falling into disgruntled grumbles.

"Larius." Her voice is as emotionless as his.

"Daciana, speak." A lock of brown hair is swept away from his eyes.

"I have nothing to say, oh Prince." Sera al Havergal does not bother to conceal the dislike behind her words. "I am not the girl you are looking for. Try one of your common whores. Maybe she'll be the one." The words are spat at him, crass in both sound and meaning.

Larius nods in agreement. "Too true, dear Daciana, I would never tarry with women like you, for there is far too much betrayal within your ranks." The political power play swings back and forth, blow for blow.

"Sera Daciana, this way, please." The valet touches the linen of her sleeve as if it might burn him. She follows without a backward glance.

Este is getting bored, so she amuses herself by trying to guess who will go next. She would guess that it is Caryn fa Gelder's companion, who stands in the rain shivering alone.

"Este dy Sharteth." Este shrugs, she does not mind be wrong on this. "Come forward and give your account."

"Prince Larius val Tännon," She begins respectfully, bowing her head to shield her gaze from his. "I saw you from afar, a woman in a window." Slowly, she lifts her head, trying to make her final revelation as dramatic as possible. "You were dancing with someone, a woman, unknown and masked. You yourself were masked, but still you wore the royal crown." She can see the embroidery on his jacket now. "Our gazes met, and I felt as if my heart was bared to you." A hush falls over the crowd as the all strain to catch her words. "I watched from the window until I was drawn away, back into the confinement of my loneliness. In that single moment, however, I knew you, and I knew I would never forget you." Her voice drops to the smallest whisper, inaudible to everyone but the people closest. "That is my account, true as it is." She is finished speaking.

She still has not met his gaze.

Larius reaches out a gloved hand to touch pallid skin, lifting his fingers gently beneath a rapid pulse. He tilts her face upwards, towards him, so that he may see her face.

He knows her. She is the woman that he saw on the second night, the one that he recognized as if he had seen her before. She must be the woman who ran from him the first night. It must be so.

He wants to believe this siren's song, and so he does.

He watches the clear blue eyes watching him and almost smiles.

Larius believes he is in love.

Arimela gasps. Her half sister has won the prize with a few, well-spoken words. She can feel the heat burning in her face, rushing angrily around the fading scars, leaving her face vaguely striped.

Arimela lets out a breath that she did not know she was holding as the Prince nods, but motions the next girl up. Arimela realizes that she will be last.

"Xavia fa Rellan, come and speak." The Prince himself makes the command, as Este stands at his side, watching the proceedings confidently, arrogantly.

The trembling girl steps forward, her pale hair damp and limp in front of her face. "My Liege, 'twas the ball just past, where we met. You introduced yourself to me and we danced and conversed for a time before royal duty called you away. Another partner captured me before we could exchange names, though I knew yours well enough." Xavia pauses, knowing it is hopeless and that any lie she creates will not outshine the truth. "Is that enough?"

The Prince nods, sensing her humiliation, and the poor girl runs to her former companion with tears augmenting the rain.

The tall man turns to Arimela. She is the last one. "Arimela dy Sharteth, please, regale us with your plea."

Arimela does not look directly at the Prince, instead choosing to look all around him. The window yonder is fascinating, and the child sitting enthralled in the mud is equally enthralling to Arimela. "My Prince. It was dark. Night. The first night. I had been dancing with one of the courtiers. Keldran dy Orinth." Her eyes dart over the patrician features of the man watching her. "Then everyone removed their masks but me. I had my own reasons for not following suit." Arimela pauses and then rushes forward, her words tumbling over each other. "I didn't mean to try and win your heart. I had…other reasons."

Arimela can feel the eyes scouring her, looking for the imperfections that Este inflicted. "You demanded I uncover my face, but I refused. I couldn't. Couldn't. You yelled. I ran. Barefoot. I didn't know what happened to the shoe until today." Arimela watches the angry flush burn through the Prince's cheeks. She can tell he is angry, but forges on anyway. "The second bal masque. We danced in the shadows until something distracted you. And then I saw that it was you, my Prince, and I ran once more. I know not whether I should fear or adore you. I still am undecided." Arimela bows her head and waits.

She waits like she always does.

Larius remembers with a scarlet tide of embarrassment. He can feel the hot fury crashing like a wave over his thoughts.

He remembers her well enough. He remembers the insolent creature from the first night, the terrified child of the second. He knows that she is the girl he is looking for. Her foot fits the slipper best, and he understands this. The damn thing was made for her.

To imagine such a delicate woman subservient to him- it is both horrible and enticing. Larius wants to reach out and touch her, but he dares not.

There is a woman standing behind him who stops him, staying his hand by her mere presence.

Larius wants to draw this paradox in a female form close to him and yet push her away at the same time. The implications are slanderous, but she is so alluring, her story so true.

Both stories are true.

But which is more compelling?

Larius stands, situating himself between the two women, and extends his hand.

Ser Veronj al Camerdyia smiles mirthlessly. His protégé has stepped forward to claim the hand of the prince. Al Camerdyia knows that the cycle ebbs and flows in tidal patterns, but he is always disappointed when they choose someone else over him.

He will never go so far as to claim a broken heart, or something similarly nonsensical, but it hurts.

Veronj al Camerdyia's eye falls on the timid mouse of a girl standing there, rejected. She is outside the circle of euphoria that has enveloped the royal heir and his chosen bride. He watches her watching them, his gaze curving around her figure, caressing her with a look.

Suddenly, Veronj understands that that slumped shoulders are not hiding sorrow, but something more, something that smolders within the protected arc of her shoulders. Not even the rain can dampen the fury that dances down the tension that lines her arms.

Veronj smiles once more, but this time, it is the feral grin of the predator.

Arimela stands there, feeling betrayed. The water dripping down her back in a trickle turns icy, or perhaps her skin is just burning. She should have expected this- this jealousy. She can feel it making its torrid way through her veins, crawling beneath her skin like so many ants. It infuses the very marrow in her bones, making them simmer with a seething envy that refuses diffuse.

Her eyes glance off of another gaze, a fascinated look that captures hers and refuses to let it go. The intensity of this watcher frightens but intrigues her.

She returns the stare, snaring his interest as well, or so she thinks. Slowly, she pushes her way through a crowd that has forgotten her already, making a path to him.

"Ela." No formality. Her name, stark and bare, is drenched by the rain.

"Veronj." She accords him the same informality.

"You are the girl." No question, just statement.

"Of course." She is still angry, but the rigid lines have softened into whip-like curves. She is ready to strike at a moment's notice.

Veronj smiles his feral smile, drawing her within his reach. "You should come with me. I have many things to tell you."

Arm in arm, but following the strict rules of decorum precisely, they depart.

Behind them, the crowds cheer as the Prince indulges in a kiss with his fiancé.

Este stands stiffly, the white dress constricting her breath and making her feel faint. She gasps, trying to discretely draw in more air, but the priest glares at her from beneath snowy brows and she stops. She feels the man beside her shift slightly, the fine cloth of his official uniform rustling.

"We are gathered today to celebrate a momentous occasion," the priest says, he voice scraping across the stones of the cathedral walls. "The marriage of our dear Prince to a fine lady." The holy man drones on, but Este does not pay attention. She still struggles to breathe properly.

Is it nerves? She wonders. She has never been like this. The stays cannot be entirely at fault; she has not had this much trouble before. A soft cough gains her another murderous glare.

"Should anyone have any objections to this marriage, let them speak now or forever hold their peace." The priest does not pause, plowing on with his memorized lines, not anticipating anything unusual.

Este finally gets to gulp in huge draughts of air as the uproar that follows the shrill cry of "I object!" engulfs all other sounds.

The old holy man if flabbergasted, and it amuses Este to see him so. "What?" He mumbles to himself. "What is this madness?"

"It is not madness!" The same voice is raised once more. "It is truth, and as truth is based in reason, it cannot be madness."

Este slowly turns, knowing who it is and yet disbelieving. "Arimela?" She whispers the name, unable to speak louder. Her breath catches in her throat, caught behind tears and myriad fears.

"My Prince, this is not a worthy bride for you," Arimela states passionately. "She is too licentious to be the pure Princess that you dream of."

"My sister…" Este cannot make herself understand.

The man beside her demands angrily, "What are your grounds for this accusation?"

Arimela flounders for a moment, casting a quick look over her shoulder for someone who doesn't seem to be there. "She is not pure, not virginal. On the night of the balls, she had an assignation with a member of your court."

"Where does this information come from?"

Este looks at the expression on his face; she cannot tell what it is. It is too convoluted; there is anger, but there is also something else. Something darker.

Finally, she places it. It is guilt

**Author's Note:** First off…I take forever to update. Secondly, Fanfiction wasn't letting me login the day I tried to update…so…here we go! An update! Wowie! Thanks for putting up with me everyone…I appreciate it.

Besides problems…school (more specifically, AP History) has eaten my life. Chomp, chomp! Gone! Just like that…the end of quarter push was tough…so many tests to take, essays to write, and units to read! Oh it was crazy…but I rehabbed with a little fun writing. I hope you all like it, and many thanks to those who reviewed!

**One question:** Is this good and done, or should I write a fourth part?

**To the Loveliest People:**

_HolmesIsMyHomie_ Thanks for reading:)

_Scoutcraft__ Piratess:_ My characters confuse me as well. It takes me forever to sort out different personalities when I write in third person because I get them all tangled…but it is fascinating…I s'pose

_Smiley Face Person:_ I'm glad you like it! And I hope that your keyboard is better…:)

_Sophianwin_Thanks for your compliments, but I have no idea what you mean by 'those lines that fanfiction provides.' If you tell me what they are, I will probably be more than happy to do so. :)

_Pearlwalrus_Well, thanks for reading, but could you possibly (if you're still reading, that is) elaborate further and tell me what I could do to make it better than ok? Please:)

_Arieda__ Rivers:_ Well…One more part to go…unless you happen to think that it is finalized enough as is? And yes…mutually glad to meet each other does sound a little silly... :P

**So…thanks again** to all who **reviewed**, and please do so again, and tell me whether or not to continue or just leave it. If this is the end, good bye. If not…see you next part!

-EvenSong


	4. Part the Fourth

_**Warnings**:_ Intrigue! Dashing, daring damsels! Emo-ness! All that and more!

_The Second Slipper: _Part the Fourth

Arimela stands there amidst the crowd, shaking beneath the weight of the gazes that are focused on her. She is suddenly terrified of this sleeping monster that she has awoken. The question of who lingers in the air, dangling before her eyes.

She cannot answer. She cannot betray Ser al Camerdyia, she promised him.

Her lips tremble, desperately holding in the name that wants to burst forth. She promised, she promised. She swore on her love for her Prince that she would not tell.

The tears drip pitifully down her cheeks.

"You won't tell, will you?" He asked her, his intense eyes burning their imprint into her own.

"Of course not," She had answered.

"Then listen. And forget that I told you anything."

"Naturally. Now tell me what I may do to get what is mine." The determination in her voice had frightened even her, but she pressed on anyway.

"On the first night of revelry," he began, "She seduced me, capturing me with wit and wiles, and I was helpless to resist. The second night was the same way, pressing her favors on me, claiming to love me forever and for always. She said that she wanted to be like her mother. You know what her mother was like." He had paused, waiting for her confirmation.

"I do."

"She was like her mother. But better." Al Camerdyia had smiled as he said that, a bemused expression resting on his lips.

Arimela laughed awkwardly, not sure how to handle the offhand remark.

"Now you have your information. I was not your source. If you forget all else, remember that. It was not me," he said, the threatening undertones compelling her to nod her head in submission.

The tears begin to fall as she is jolted back to reality by the rough grip of hard hands on her arms. She is unbalanced, her knees buckling as she gives in to her fear.

"Will you come without a struggle?"

Arimela's world is spinning around her, flying past her in a blur of memories and faces. She is frozen, uncertainty slamming into her with unexpected force.

"I- I…" Her tongue refuses to form the words, obstinately sticking to the roof of her mouth in dry terror.

"You will." Thick fingers dig into her flesh as the hands tighten their hold.

She does.

Este watches as her sister is dragged from the chapel. The wretched girl is limp with exhausted defiance, her head hanging with resignation. Este does not know what to think; should she pity her sister or just regard her with a triumphant contempt? As she turns back to her Prince, she sees the same troubles expression on his face that adorns her own.

"Shall we carry on?" She asks with forced lightness, her nails biting into her palm.

Larius nods, but hesitantly.

The holy man, disgruntled, continues on, his white hair trembling with each word he declaims. Finally, the ceremony draws to a close. "Do you, Prince Larius val Tännon, take this woman to be your wedded wife, Queen, and beloved until death do you part?"

Larius is silent as he pulls the ring from his finger and turns to Este. When he looks at her, his eyes are clouded again with guilt and indecision. They both know that she is not the woman he was looking for, but she knows that she is the woman that he will have.

"I do take this woman as my wife, my Queen, and my…my beloved until death does us part." His hands are cold on Este's. She can feel the moist perspiration that coats the inside of the ring sliding across the fourth finger of her left hand.

His hands are shaking, making hers shake as well. As soon as the ring is secure, he drops her hands as if they burn.

The wrinkled old man turns to Este now. "Do you, Sera Este dy Sharteth, take this man to be your wedded husband, King and beloved, until death do you part?"

Este breathes in as deeply as she dares and captures her royal husbands gaze unflinchingly. "I do take this man to be my husband, my King and my beloved, until death does us part." She takes the fingers of his left hand and singles out the fourth one. The ring in her right hand, which has impressed a circle into her palm, goes easily on, slowing only slightly over the joint.

"I now pronounce you," the priest drones on, "man and wife."

There. It is done.

"You may kiss the bride."

Larius feels her skin, so flushed under his fingertips, as he tilts her face upwards so that he can touch his lips to hers. Her eyelids never flutter closed, the eyelashes never cloak intense eyes with a fringe of blonde.

He knows because he watches her, their gazes locked in a stalemate.

Este spins around the room, dizzily holding onto her husband's arm. Then, the room is spinning around Este and she reels as if intoxicated past the sea of faces that meld together into one accusing stare. She is choking on all the apologies, the worries and the fears.

Larius places cool fingertips on her cheek, trailing them through the tears that have trickled across her unblemished skin.

"You wonder," he says softly, his voice a deep current beneath the orchestra.

"I do," she whispers, the words barely coming out from behind the tears. She can feel the crown resting heavily on her head, and she worries. "I wonder and worry, and all sorts of other things." She pauses, and he wipes the tear drops away. "Do you?"

He does not answer at first, choosing instead to focus on the complicate dance patterns that sends them flying across the room. All the other dancers make way for the future King and his Queen. "I worry as well. Most of all…" he trails off, substituting an off-key humming for words. "Mostly, I wonder."

The orchestra crescendos in a rush of whining strings, and Este smiles as one lone, discordant wail shatters the harmony. "What do you wonder about?"

She waits, but Larius does not answer.

Arimela presses her body into the curve of the window, exulting in the cool touch of the glass that calms her flushed skin. She does not dare to go out into the sea of people that writhes beneath her, the churning waves of fine material lapping at her hiding spot.

"Sera dy Sharteth," a whisper trails down her spine, making her shiver.

Arimela turns slowly, knowing who she will see. "Ser al Camerdyia," she murmurs softly in reply.

"Why are you not dancing?" He is all gentlemanly concern, his expression a finely sculpted mask.

"I do not feel like it." She looks away, staring into the candlelit reflections on the glass. "I am through with dancing."

Al Camerdyia scoffs at this, his lips curved in a mirthless smile. "You danced twice. How can you be through? Surely one more dance would not kill you."

Arimela's eyes crumple, shining with tears.

His expression softens into something far more real. "Come, my dear, and dance with me one last time." He takes her hand in his. "Please?"

It is the only time he has ever been less than demanding, and Arimela knows that it will not happen again. "I suppose." She feels herself sliding across the floor, the soles of her dancing shoes swishing lightly across the floor.

They position themselves and wait for the music.

The roiling tide of music pours over them, drowning them in memories.

As the tears fall from her eyes, Veronj wipes each one away, carefully, gently, trying to make her shine before he has to bring her down.

The bell tolls midnight, the twelve, sonorous booms announcing to all that the masque is over and the gift giving is to begin. All in attendance have brought a gift to bestow upon their new royal couple, trying to garner favor.

Este looks at the throng of people, some bearing the gifts of their masters, others looking satisfied at the offerings that their servants held.

One by one, they step forward, bringing her luscious fabrics, sparkling jewels, and anything else a royal Princess might desire. All are expensive, and none show restraint. Larius is given horses, hounds, and a plethora of other things that Este does not care for or about. She sighs and scans the crowd, searching for a friendlier face.

Her eyes alight on Ser Veronj al Camerdyia, and her cheeks flush with memories. She notes that he is not orbited by a host of servants, instead choosing to hold his gift alone. It is a small box, wrapped in the finest cloth. She can tell even at such a distance that the cloth is woven with gold. Veronj holds the box as if it is something prized, something delicate or fragile; he holds it lovingly.

Este vaguely wonders why, her thoughts rambling from one subject to another in the stupor of boredom.

As the minutes tick by, she nods and smiles countless times, not listening, not caring.

Veronj holds the box carefully; though his gift is light, it is fragile. Finally, he steps to the dais, his hands steady and cool, a smirk gracing his lips. "For you, my lieges." He sweeps a low bow, proffering his gift to the couple.

He can feel her eyes on him, watching him warily. "Dearest Princess Este, I pray that you take this gift from me and cherish it always. It commemorates a very special night- the night you met your husband."

Este's cheeks flush with heat, the crimson color burning across her pale skin. Veronj does not permit his mouth to curve further, although he would like to. Carefully, ever carefully, she unwraps the delicate tissue paper.

"Thank you, Ser al Camerdyia, you really are too kind." Veronj allows a satisfied smile to slide onto his lips.

"It is no problem for me to give something of such sentimental value to my most beloved monarchs." Veronj bows, a deft courtier's trick, and backs away. "Anything for you, my dear."

Este's stifled anger pleases him to no end.

Larius studies the slipper carefully. It is not the same one, he realizes belatedly, that the mysterious dancer had left behind that first night. "Este," he murmurs softly. "I wonder about so many things, but most of all, about that first night."

Her eyes dart to his and then away in the span of a heart beat. "What do you mean?"

There is no term of endearment to take the edge off of her accusatory words. "Why would you not take off your mask, dearest one?"

The only color that remains in her cheeks is that which has been painted there. "Because I could not."

"Why, Este, why?" The persistent questioning has flustered her.

"Because..." His wife is suddenly lost for words.

In that moment, Larius is certain; he has married the wrong girl.

Slowly, the pieces that had been missing from the puzzle of that night start to fall into place.

Arimela watches the proceedings, dread slowly cooling the blood that runs through her veins. She begins to shake, her hands blurring with motion.

"Sera?"

Ignoring the inquisitive voice, she turns and flees from the great room where the masses have been gathered. Her shoes make no noise on the floor as she run, her pulse pounding so dizzyingly fast that the room reels around her. She stumbles but once, hesitating only to make sure she has both shoes on her feet.

She wouldn't want to end up in such a mess as this again.

It has broken her not once, but twice. This second slipper cuts deeper than the first; its cruelty eclipses the humiliation of the first. Desperately, she promises herself that she will never let a third chance come. Never again, she vows.

Arimela lets the bitter tears tumble down her cheeks like saline rain.

Fermimly enters the darkened room, shivering as the dank chill seeps through her thin shift. "Arimela?" Her voice is slight, delicate. "Ela?"

Arimela's angular shoulders heave as she sighs. "Yes, Fermimly?"

"Why don't you come with us?" She wraps her around her waist to ward off the coolness of the air.

"You wouldn't understand." Arimela's elegant fountain pen scratches across the paper. "There is no mask that is crafted well enough to hide the truth."

"Why must you always be so cryptic?" Fermimly bites her lip as if to hold in the words she has spoken, realizing that they sound childish.

Arimela doesn't answer.

"Ela?" She takes a hesitant step forward. "Why can't you go and enjoy yourself? It will be fun! Just think of it- all the people dressed in costume, all the lovely music and dancing! Oh, Ela, please?" Fermimly smiles hopefully, encouragingly even though Arimela is not watching.

"You wouldn't understand, Fermimly." That same dismissal again. "You can't." Slender fingers push wayward strands of hair back into their proper place. "I promised I wouldn't...I promised myself," she murmurs, half to herself.

"Arimela? What do you mean?" There are too many unanswered questions in the room, and Fermimly does not like it. "Ela?"

Suddenly the older girl whirls around, anger defining the hard lines of her body. "You just don't get it, do you?"

Fermimly, terrified by this unexpected fury, whispers, "No." Tears prickle in her eyes and she turns to leave. "I don't understand." One last futile attempt to find answers- "Ela?"

"No."

Fermimly leaves.

Arimela wishes someone would understand. Quietly, she picks up the pen, dips it, and begins to write. She starts in the middle, because there is no beginning that she can remember. She writes down her story as no one will remember it, as no one will tell it.

She writes down her truth.

As she finishes, the words running together in her vision, Arimela finds an odd solace in the ink on the page. Within her truth lies the mask she has been searching for- the mask of lies.

**Author's Note**: It took me forever to get the ending right, and I'm sorry for making you all wait, but it just wasn't right. But now it's acceptable at least. How do you like it?

Since I'm now forbidden to respond to reviews here…I'll just say thanks to everyone who did! I appreciate it so much! Your reviews keep me writing.

So, now that this is over, I shall start working on…something. Maybe the Catskin thing I was talking about, maybe Promises Broken…ack I have no idea!

After May, when the AP exams are over, I will have more time to write for me…and then I should become my prolific self again. I hope!

See you all whenever, as always, feel free to email me at next time…

_Even Song_


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